"Don't be ridiculous," I'd told him. "I'll be fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Jaxon."
"I know, I know. You can handle it." He'd paused. "But if she says anything, anything that makes you feel like shit, you call me. Or Vale. Or hell, call Shayla. Just don't sit there and take it."
I'd promised I wouldn't.
Now, standing in my apartment, keys in hand, I wasn't so sure.
The drive to my mother's house took thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of my stomach twisting itself into knots. Thirty minutes of rehearsing things I wanted to say but knew I'd never have the courage to actually voice.
Her house looked exactly the same as it had twelve years ago.
Pristine white colonial with black shutters. Perfectly manicured lawn even though it was late fall. Seasonal wreath on the front door. Everything in its place, everything controlled.
Just like her.
I pulled into the circular driveway behind a silver minivan I recognized as my sister Kia's. Next to it was a sleek black Audi I didn't recognize.
Edward's, probably.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
I could leave. Could turn the car around right now and drive back to my apartment. Text my mother some excuse. Tell her I was sick.
Which wasn't even a lie.
But then I thought about the interview. About this job I loved. About how easily she could take it away.
I got out of the car.
The front door opened before I could knock.
My mother stood there, wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater and perfectly pressed slacks. Her dark hair, threadedwith more gray than I remembered, was pulled back in an elegant twist. Pearls at her throat. The picture of refined grace.
Until she looked at me.
"You're late."
I checked my watch. "I'm three minutes early."
"Early is on time. On time is late." Her eyes traveled over me, critical and assessing. "That's what you chose to wear?"
The dress that I'd agonized over suddenly felt wrong. Too simple. Too plain.
"It's a family dinner, Mom."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "We have a very important guest tonight. I expected you to make more of an effort."
She stepped aside to let me in, and I walked past her into the foyer. The house smelled exactly like I remembered. Lavender and lemon furniture polish. Everything spotless. Everything perfect.
Everything cold.
Voices drifted from the living room. I followed the sound, my mother's heels clicking on the hardwood behind me.
My sister Kia was sitting on the couch with her husband, Marcus. Their two kids, a boy and a girl, maybe eight and six, were playing quietly with tablets in the corner.
